Young Americans
by ChickenFillets
Summary: When Spencer Reid finds out about his illegitimate daughter, no one is more surprised than he is – but when Bowie's mother dies, she is sent to live with her FBI agent father, where they both find out that fatherhood is not as easy as it seems.


**Hi All,**

**First time publisher here. Reviews and criticism would be greatly valued - don't be afraid to be harsh.**

**Enjoy,**

**ChickenFillets **

* * *

**Part One**

The ring of his mobile hit him like a ton of bricks, leaving his head throbbing and eyes watering. Spencer listened to the constant clanging of his phone and regretted drinking the night before.

Now let it be said that Spencer Reid is not a big drinker. His reluctance stemmed not from a low alcohol tolerance, nor loss of his inhibitions, but from his previous issues with addiction, and he had found that since the '_Tobias Hankle Incident_' he only indulged in alcohol on rare occasions.

But the case had been bad and Garcia had been persuasive, and Spencer had found himself drinking more than he had in the past two years collectively.

And so it was with great reluctance that Reid sat up and answered his phone with a clipped: "Dr Reid."

Expecting the familiar tones of his friend and colleague JJ, Spencer was surprised to hear an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the telephone.

"Hello Dr Reid, this is Wendy Hopkins from child protection services, do you have a few minutes to talk about your daughter?"

Reid's eyebrows shot up.

"I'm sorry; I think there's been a mistake. I don't have a daughter."

"You are Dr Spencer William Reid?"

"Yes."

"Then there has not been a mistake. You are listed on the girl's birth certificate as her father."

Silence.

* * *

Dr Reid was not what Wendy had expected. She knew little about him other than his name, the fact that he was a doctor of some sort, and the fact that he had a teenage daughter of whom he had never heard of until she had called.

When he'd first walked in, she'd assumed he was some sort of model. Then she got a look at his clothes and contemplated a college student, before her eyes sought out the revolver clipped onto his belt. She'd had no idea what to make of him.

He had made his way to the desk and introduced himself as Dr Spencer Reid, and she'd choked on her water. After the coughing let up and she'd stopped being distracted by his eyelashes (they were way too long to belong to a boy), she cleared her throat and signed him in.

"Sorry, are you sure you're Dr Reid? You don't look old enough to have a sixteen year old daughter."

His eyebrows scrunched together. "I'm thirty-two. Teenage pregnancy that I apparently wasn't informed of until yesterday. Is Carla here?"

There was a sinking feeling in her chest. "Carla Delacour?"

He nodded.

"No one told you?"

He managed to look even more confused, and she felt a pang of empathy for the man in front of her.

"The… um… the reason you've been called is because of the, ah, car crash." She swallowed when she saw his expression. "You were listed as the girl's father on the birth certificate."

Reid's face had a panic-stricken quality to it. "Are they okay?" His voiced quivered slightly.

"Your daughter is fine, just a few scrapes."

"And Carla?" His voice broke on the name of his high school sweetheart.

"She's in surgery, but she's not expected to make it."

* * *

Reid sunk into the chair and dropped his head into his hands. He tried to clear his mind, but it was abuzz with things he didn't want to think about. Carla. His daughter. Carla. Every single digit of pi. Carla. The fact that he still didn't know his daughter's name. The steps that should be followed to deliver a baby. Carla. Carla. Carla.

He hadn't seen her since his MIT days. They'd met in a library – he'd been studying and pickpocketing unsuspecting college professors, she'd been hiding from her over bearing father and practising the art of tattooing on a dreadlocked girl smoking marijuana, and they both received a telling off from the beak nosed librarian. After being thrown out of the library, they'd bonded over hot chocolate and Star trek with her friend Clary (the dreadlocked girl).

They spent the summer together, drinking cheap beer, listening to David Bowie songs, having sex in the shade of the woods behind her house. The day before summer ended she told him she was moving to Texas. He offered her his left pectoral as a canvas. That was the last he saw of her. He hadn't loved her, but he could have grown too.

He gently traced the place on his body that he'd trusted her with. Underneath his shirt, the architectural typeface of inky black seemed to tingle on his skin.

"Dr Reid?"

He was snapped out of his reverie by the woman from child protection services – Wendy Hopkins, she'd said over the phone – and stood.

"Are you ready to meet your daughter?"

He paused. "One question." The woman looked at him, her dark eyes curious. "What's her name?"

The woman smiled. "Bowie."

* * *

"We've lost her." The surgeons' shoulders slumped.

* * *

Bowie didn't cry as she sat in the hospital waiting room. Instead she thought about her mother and her father and her grandmother. She wondered if god was apologising for taking away one parent by giving her another. She wondered if it was her fault for wishing for a dad.

Her mom had always described her father as intelligent and caring.

"_You have your father's eyes, you know_," her mother had told her.

Her mother didn't talk a lot about her father. Bowie knew that his name was Spencer, he had a heart of gold, and he was going somewhere in the world. Her mom hadn't wanted to ruin his life as well as her own. Her mother had never outright said it, but Bowie wasn't stupid.

The woman from before (Wendy, was it?) entered the room with a tall man and made her way over to her.

"Bowie, this is Spencer. Spencer, Bowie."

_Spencer_ wasn't what Bowie expected. For one thing, he was young. She knew that her mother had only been sixteen when she'd had Bowie, but Spencer looked as though he was in his twenties. He had her eyes, big and brown and heavily lashed. His skin was pale and unmarked, much like her own, and his hair was a chestnut colour. He dressed like a college student – converse, black jeans, and a ridiculous sweater vest. A well-worn messenger bag was slung over his shoulder, and he bit his lip, managing to look so innocent and unsure of himself that she almost felt sorry for him.

But the thing that really struck her was the gun on his belt.

* * *

Bowie was not what Spencer had been expecting, not that he'd had any expectations anyway. She was tall and slim, with a willowy, waifish figure. Her eyes were brown, and her hair was a pale blonde, much like Carla's was. Had been.

He watched her as she analysed him, her eyes scanning him like the morning paper.

Spencer gave Bowie a sad smile, and together they embarked on a journey unlike anything they'd experienced before.

If only someone had warned Spencer about the difficulties involved with caring for a teenager.


End file.
